


The Swing of Things

by Chelzbuckwheat



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Fluff, Other, Star Wars AU, art therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 05:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7744930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chelzbuckwheat/pseuds/Chelzbuckwheat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ross never thought something as small as a model Pod Racer could amount to so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Swing of Things

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Keep Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6743848) by [threeplusfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire). 



> This drabble is based in the amazing Threeplusfire's Star Wars AU "Keep Forever" which you should all go read. The story could stand alone if you haven't read KF but there are nods to it. It's a little story about the impact of art therapy on a particular victim of trauma. It's the first time in a long time I've written, but I hope it's still enjoyable. Thanks bunches n' oats <3 -C

It was quiet in the house, save the small patters of rain on the patio roof beyond the living room. It was the third day without sun, Ross thought, watching the raindrops race down the windows. It made him not want to leave the house, but the miserable Trott made him not want to stay even more.  The news of Smith’s delayed return twisted the hangar into a place of unrest, every smell of buzzing electrical wiring warped into the smell of Smith’s hair after morning runs and every oil spill into Smith’s favorite soup from the cafeteria. Even worse was the house – the floors changed into eggshells, the living room a no man’s land, and the dining room table seemed to stretch miles long. He had never felt more isolated than when he watched Trott disappear into himself. Ross expected anger, worry, defensiveness. But Trott embodied loss, he was completely inconsolable. Sips had visited on the third day since the bad news, but Trott had sent him home without greeting him.

Ross and Trott were picking at leafy salads when the door clicked open. The small curses of a certain pilot broke through the tense silence. Smith juggled two bags, one across his shoulder and the other in his hand. Trott excused himself from the table with a toss of his napkin, leaving Ross to sit with his dinner. Ross adverted his eyes from the embrace, knowing the routine of Smith’s return. Ross could barely hear the small noises of worry and questions Trott made, let alone the smaller shushes and rustling of bags. It was quiet again and Ross stood from the table, knowing Trott wouldn’t get around to finishing his meal tonight.

It was about an hour before Trott and Smith came back downstairs after their shared shower. Ross had changed into his midnight blue pajamas. With Smith back, the life returned to Trott’s eyes, the tug of a smile at his lips. They were constantly linked, whether it was by Trott’s hand, Smith’s arm, their legs locked as they lounged along the sofa. A pang of jealousy bolted through Ross, but he repressed it with a deep breath. What they shared was for them, he had begun to routinely tell himself. The people he had lived for, killed for even, had left him buried beneath the shell of a downed ship. He couldn’t help but to think maybe he should have stayed there.

“Ross, I got something I think you’ll like,” Smith said excitedly. He untangled himself from Trott, ignoring the small whine from the Jedi, and rummaged through the bag. Ross took the rectangular box from Smith and was surprised by how light it was. The foreign language on the packing paper meant nothing to Ross, though it did make an interesting geometric pattern along the length of the box.

Smith handed the probably-sleepwear to Trott, and Ross rested his gift into his lap. It was ritualistic to watch this exchange each and every time. The usual “You’ll never guess what I got you” –  the sarcastic “Course not” and long eye roll. Trott always took the time to untie the ribbon, peel the tape piece by piece. Procedurally Trott undid the packaging, pinching the opposite corners and slowly lifting the lid. The color and style was always different, but the fabric always sinfully smooth and shimmery. This pajama top was short and a deep black, to the point it looked like void trimmed by a stormy grey liner. Trott grinned pleased. He picked the top up by its shoulders, holding it up for further inspection. He folded the fabric, but when he turned to the box, his eyebrows furrowed, confused.

“Where are the bottoms?”

“Oh you don’t need em.”

“Smith, this top will barely reach my hips.”

“And?” A twinge of heat raced to the tips of Ross’ ears, the image vivid in his mind. There was a playful thwack and Smith’s mischievous chuckle, and the moment passed without them noticing Ross’ discomfort.

“What about yours, Ross? No scandalous sleepwear?”

“Psh, you think that’s for sleeping?” Smith joked, only to be silenced with another smack to the arm.

Ross reached for the package again, trying to instead think of its possible contents. The box was just as large as Trott’s, though Ross was sure it only half as heavy. It wasn’t clothes, nor some exotic snack Smith assured was good (but hardly was). The idea of a new gift left Ross on edge, but he opened the box dutifully.

At first, Ross really didn’t know what he was holding. It looked to be small metal pieces categorized into a system he couldn’t determine. There were tubes of colored paint and glue. When Ross picked up the instruction pamphlet, he saw a small replica model of a Pod racer with the caption “1/8 scale model, paint and glue included.”

“You had said you liked putting things together, making things work,” Smith recalled. “I know it’s a lot like what you do for the hangar, but maybe you’ll like this too.”

Ross was at a loss for words – this was the first non-practical gift he had received, or at least he was pretty sure it was. The First Order didn’t celebrate individual birthdays, but instead did monthly commemorations on an arbitrary day. The gifts were never personalized, but usually an extra meal chip or an extra shower slot. But this, Ross realized, was tailored to what Smith saw as Ross’ interests. Ross quelled the excited roll in his stomach.

“I just put it together?” Ross asked. Smith seemed to deflate at the reserved reaction, but smiled through it.

“Ross, knowing you, you could probably make it fly.” The praise fostered a smile from Ross, and he beamed at Smith. The satisfaction in Smith’s tired eyes and the supportive nod from Trott made up Ross’ mind: Ross wasn’t quite sure how yet, but that Pod racer was going to fly.

 

Now that Smith was back, Ross easily fell back into his usual routine at the hangar. It was nice to have Smith only a few feet away for most of the work day – something Ross hadn’t realized he had started to need in order to be functional at work. Towards the end of last week, even Tom had taken to giving Ross a wide breadth; Ross dropped tools and parts alike if anyone so much as sneezed too suddenly.

But Ross’ tinkering didn’t stop at the hangar anymore. Fully dedicated to impressing Smith and Trott, Ross had begun to spend the evenings at home with his replica model in hand. Between the instruction manual and the mind-numbing amount of videos Ross watched on Pod racers, Ross was fairly certain in his ability to reconstruct the look of the model. He found after the first night his large hands were not delicate enough to piece together some of the angles of the ship’s thrusters, and Smith let him “borrow” a pair of tweezers from the hangar (after reassuring Ross that no one would ever notice).

Smith spent just as much time wrapped around Trott as he did beside Ross, looking over the model and sometimes Ross’ face. There was a peace in his sky-blue eyes when he worked on the model. The pinch of concentration gave a gentle edge to his face, but the tension was endearing instead of worrying. Ross was more vocal when he had something in his hand, chattering about the jobs that needed done at the hangar and how certain pieces of the model were out of scale. Ross told them that he had never heard of Pod racing, as there was a ban on gambling and risk-oriented games. Neither Trott or Smith were surprised to hear it, but they weren’t about to dispel the moment of insight they had into Ross’ old life.

“I think that’s the first time he’s told us something without us prying,” Smith pondered one night as he laid in bed, playing with Trott’s unbound hair.

“It’s surely the first time he’s done it with me,” Trott confirmed between a yawn.

“Who knew all we had to do was give him a project to get him to loosen up.”

“Well, we did see him take to the hangar work. But I think it goes beyond that.” Smith leaned up on an elbow to look down at Trott, his hand resting on the Jedi’s sharp jaw. “Art has healing properties.”

“I mean, is a replica model really art Trott?”

“Those dicks you draw on the shower wall certainly aren’t,” Trott teased, earning him a sidelong glare.

“Beauty is in the art of the beholder,” Smith defensively quoted.

“Course, sunshine. I’ve got something pretty for you to behold right here.” Trott waggled his eyebrows with a cunning smirk, before Smith scoffed and ended the conversation with a kiss. Smith didn’t care if Ross took up interpretative dance of Wookie yodeling, so long as Ross stayed happy.

 

There was hardly an hour that passed in which Ross wasn’t thinking about the small model sat on the shelf above the fireplace. It had been almost a week, and Ross had only a few more pieces to gather and construct to complete the model itself. The only things that needed to be done afterwards was paint it, and of course, figure out how to make the damn thing fly. Ross already ran buoyancy tests to find the model’s center of gravity, planned out how to adjust the model to make it match the center of gravity of a real Pod racer, (or else the flight pattern would be totally different). The ideas of aerodynamic tests and stability tests made his head hurt: but, they would allow him to regulate flight, ensuring the thing could stay in the air if it needed to be propelled up to maintain a sense of altitude (that of course would mean that Ross would need to design and build a propulsion system that kept the model afloat).

Ross sighed loudly, cursing himself as a hindsight.

This gush of creativity had caught Ross completely off-guard. It was something he never experienced before – being a mechanic for the First Order was not a very intellectually challenging job. Their ships were so streamlined and uniform that it was not hard to imagine where pieces were meant to go. There were dozens of rules and regulations for bathroom breaks, let alone for the construction of complex space ships that had to be fast, resilient, and fierce. Even outside of the hangars, the Stars know soldiers like him were not warranted to have time to sit and build models. This was completely new to Ross, and he actually enjoyed it.

It wasn’t until after a few days that Ross came face-to-face with his first “creative block”. He knew making the model float would involve testing material weights, constructing a source of power to make the model float, and finding a way to make the glue and paint heat resistant so the model wouldn’t turn to mush within the first week. But in all his years as a mechanic, ships were powered from within, not from an external source: in involved the combustion of oil, the turning of pieces to convert heat into kinetic energy, then into electric to power the scanners, blasters, and pretty much everything else. Every step had to work in order for the ship to fly, to fight, to come home. One fault could spell disaster for not only the pilot, but an entire squad. One step out of line put more than one person at risk, it was that one mistake that cost the team, the mission. It had to be perfect, Ross told himself. It had to be right.

Ross spent the next two days doing calibrations instead of finishing the model. He told Smith to go home awhile, that he wanted to look at the defective engine that been stumping the whole hangar for a few days now. But the engine never moved from the core of the fighter. Instead, Ross hunched over the paper on which he scrawled the different algebraic formulas for flight factors, crunching numbers that didn’t even out. When Ross spent the second night at the hangar, it wasn’t because he wanted to figure out the numbers – he was ashamed he couldn’t make the model fly. But there was no way to make the model work, it was too dense. It became a cycle: to take away pieces was to take away weight, but then it wouldn’t be stable enough to float after a few seconds of being airborne. But without taking away weight, well then there needed to be a more powerful flight source, which meant the model would need to be more stable to handle the force, but that meant there needed to be more material, more material meant more weight, more weight meant a higher power thruster –

Ross threw down the pencil angrily at the desk, shoving the seat back as he stood. He raked his fingers through his hair, feeling the longer hairs in the front stick up. What kind of mechanic was he if he couldn’t make a toy fly? Smith was going to be so disappointed, Ross accepted. The idea gripped at Ross’ chest, an ache resounding beyond what he expected. Defeated, Ross flicked the lights off in the hangar and dragged his feet on his walk back to the house of those he wanted to please so much.

Trott counted the days the model sat in its spot, unmoved. It was the fourth night now Ross was pointedly not looking at the fireplace, Smith, or Trott. He stayed at the hangar late twice, ate without them last night, and had not been seen after going upstairs. And though Smith wasn’t vocalizing his concern, Trott could feel it. The connection him and Smith shared allowed for Trott to be able to tap into Smith’s mind somewhat. Sips called it the aura, an incorporeal force imbued with a person’s thoughts, emotions, intentions, subconscious. The pangs in Trott’s chest told him Smith was worried; it was bitter to taste. Smith’s kisses even began to have a sting in them.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Trott asked as they shared their dinner without Ross. The question seemed to catch Smith off-guard. He deliberately ate another bite before replying.

“I just don’t know what happened,” Smith sighed. Trott hummed in agreement. “I thought we were making progress, but it feels like one step forward is five back.”

“Perhaps he’s worried that finishing it will end your interest in what he’s doing,” Trott speculated. “Maybe even my own.”

“But he has to know it goes beyond that.” Trott reached out and rest his hand high on Smith’s arm. He hoped Smith was right.

 

It had been five days since Ross fiddled with the model, and his hands ached to turn it over and over. He told himself numerous times over the last two days that it was hopeless, he might as well throw it away. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it – Smith bought it for him, had thought about Ross and picked something out for him personally.

Part of him yearned to finish the model, to be able to focus on something that wasn’t as important as the fighters in Smith’s fleet. Something self-indulgent and calming. Not that working in the hangar was hard, taxing work – but something about the model made life seem manageable. Having left it alone for this long, it started to consume Ross’ thoughts again.

Ross found himself a watching video of Pod races after exhausting a plethora of videos on their flight functions. Ross realized within a minute of the video that how the Racer flew and how it was flown were two different things. He knew of its capabilities of speed and agility, but not of its customizability. There was so much liberty in choosing what the rider needed to succeed; there were pods with small wing additions, ones with longer cords connecting rider and propulsion units, one with a wide breadth between the coils that propel the Pod.

But just as importantly, the rider impacted the flight. Everyone had their own style, a drift pattern they maintained through the race, different risk management techniques and reactions. But there was still some of the severe training of piloting: riders have to match the momentum of the careen vessels, keep them on course, dodge obstacles, and maintain speed to win races. There was a freedom there that Ross found enticing, something he had never experienced in the meticulous test for First Order fighters. Where the First Order fighters had rigorous flight simulations, following in-organic flight patterns, Pod racers seemed to flow in a constant search for equilibrium amongst the canyon walls – pulled towards the sides, only to be repulsed towards the other side a second later. The videos seemed to scratch the itch Ross had for the model, and he tried not to focus too much on it for the rest of the day.

The solution to his musings blindsided Ross amongst the quiet drawl of running water in the bath. He could have slapped himself for not seeing the solution before. With resolve he rushed his washing and barely legged his pajama bottoms before leaving the bathroom. Gathering up his supplies from the fireplace, he smuggled them and the replica into his room. Ross wanted to finish it properly without giving Smith the chance to piece together his plan. He told himself it would be better if he caught Smith completely unaware, knowing how excitable Smith can be.

Smith noticed the missing model immediately. He was disheartened at the fact – at least before there was a small promise Ross might pick it back up. Now Smith was sure it was over. And without it, Ross fidgeted and seemed eager to escape his and Trott's company. At least he was eating with them, Smith considered. Whenever Smith voiced his concerns, Trott assured him it would be fine, and to give Ross his space until he was ready. It made Smith mad, the way Trott was being so nonchalant about the situation – Smith knew Trott cared. But maybe he was right, Ross always bounced back in his own time. Smith just wanted it to be sooner rather than later.

But, five days after the remnants of Smith’s gift had disappeared, Ross was ready to debut the finished product. Smith returned with Trott from a meeting with Nano and Angor about the next series of recruiting circuits. The first thing Smith noticed was the table was bare, except for a low, wide bowl, pieced together with scrap metal polished to a sheen. When Smith approached the table, it clicked exactly what the sculpture was: there was the model floating effortlessly in the middle of the bowl. The replica was swaying between the sides, ebbing forward only to slowly sink to back of the bowl, restarting its orbit.

Looking up from the bowl, Smith saw Ross, standing in the relaxed at-attention posture he took when he was nervous, but those bright blue eyes shone with anticipation.

"Ross," is all Smith could conjure in his surprise. The light in Ross' eyes dimmed into a low worry and doubt. His arms folded to run his hand where his injury just healed, the only memory of it a small welted scar.

"This is impressive Ross," Trott supplied for Smith. Trott too was worried when he realized the model was gone. When Smith and Ross went to the hangar that morning, Trott scrounged the house for it in the bins. But Trott found the model safety tucked under the table, hidden by a pile of clothes. Realizing Ross’ plan, he left it, more focused on making sure Smith wouldn’t find it or freak out. But what was in the center of the table was beyond what Trott had expected. He inspected it closer; Ross had painted the model immaculately, down to a small golden hue for the energy coils, shadows for the tall propulsion cores, and darkening the under-layers of the body of the Pod. Ross perked up at the compliment, and when Trott beckoned him closer, Ross complied.

"How'd you get this to work?" Smith asked watching the model circulate in its bowl.

"Magnets," Ross offered bashfully. He plucked the model from its bowl and presented it to Smith. Smith gingerly took it, turning it in hand, examining the piece. Ross had adhered thin strips of a dark metal to the sides and underbelly of the replica. There were other strips seemingly mish-mashed along the bowl, though with the precision the model floated along the bowl, Smith doubted they were random.

"You can put it back anywhere, it'll find its way back into the swing of things," Ross continued, the shy curve of a smile in his lips. Smith returned the model to its bowl, and after a sudden rocking near the edge, the Pod racer corrected itself and returned to doing laps around the bowl.

"Ross, this is awesome," Smith said, patting Ross' shoulder. There was a twinge of heat across Ross' cheeks, a lightness in his stomach at the praise. “Not only is it a very cool center piece for the dinner table, but now I know what to get you on my runs,” Smith continued, his eyes bright.

“Smith, you don’t have to –”

“- No way man. Before you decided to get all secretive with it, I didn’t have to worry about what was going on in that head.”

“It’s true Ross, it was nice to see you relaxed,” Trott agreed, the hint of relief tugging at the corners of his eyes. Ross stood next to Smith, not able to meet the pilot’s eyes. He never considered it to have such a noticeable effect on him. He had gotten so caught up in figuring out how to make it work, and he lost sight of what it was supposed to be – for him. And granted, he was glad he impressed not only Smith, but Trott; but he enjoyed having something to come home to unwind with.

“I did enjoy this. But I don’t know if I could do something like this again.” Ross was surprised at Smith’s hand curl around the back of his neck. The gesture made Ross immediately tense against his hand, his eyes darting to the pilot. Smith’s grip was gentle, but his eyebrows were pinched.

“What you did with this,” Smith motioned to the model, “is incredible. But I care more about what you want.” Ross reeled at the comment, not quite sure what to say. His hesitancy only flamed Smith’s need to make him understand. “You’re more than your accomplishments, Ross.” Smith took a breath and shook his head lightly. “I want you to do what you want, for yourself. Not because we impose our will on you. Does that make sense?” Ross looked from Smith to Trott, whose eyes were soft, looking between Smith and Ross.

“I want – I like to,” Ross stumbled. Between the weight of their gaze and Smith’s hand, Ross felt his mind falter. Ross took a deep breath to stabilize himself. He didn’t want to shrink away from his friends anymore. The people that have walked with him this far already. The people who wake him from night terrors, who take him to work and around the settlement unabashed, who share their home, share their dinner, share their life with some stranger. He didn’t want to stay a stranger, but to articulate his needs felt like a weakness. His squad had grown up with him, sharing the fears, the feats – there was no need to talk, everyone felt the same. They were synchronized, from sleep schedule to chess tactics to favorite dessert from the barracks. There was a divide between Ross, and Smith and Trott. Not from lack of trying on their part, but maybe on Ross’. Ever since the Battle, fear gripped Ross at the deepest point of himself, and Ross let himself be controlled by it.

Ross swallowed the doubt, the hesitancy. He lifted his eyes to meet Smith’s, finding refuge in the flecks of green and blue against grey. “This is the first thing I’ve done in a long time that didn’t feel like it had strings attached.” Ross was surprised how easily the words came. He had said these things to himself, thoughts bouncing around while he soaked in the bath. But he didn’t think he would ever say them. “I enjoyed doing this in itself, but the idea that you two would like it made it mean a lot more. You two have done so much for me,” Ross trailed off. Smith’s thumb came down to caress the base of Ross’ neck and his breath faltered. It was hard to breath, and Ross’ eyes stung, but he tried not to keep looking at Smith. “Thank you Smith.” Ross turned to Trott as he approached. “Thank you Tro–”

Trott threw his arms around Ross’ center, entrapping his arms to his chest. Trott’s hands rested tightly against Ross’s back. Smith leaned into them both, his forehead against Ross’ temple, his breath against Ross’ cheek. The hand cupped around his neck tightened and Smith threw an arm around Trott’s back, that too coming to rest on Ross’ shoulder. Ross automatically tensed at the touch, so used to pulling away from the idea of imposing on Smith and Trott’s intimacy. But the men’s grip persisted and Ross let go. A small bubble of a laugh escaped him, only to be chased with a choked sob. Smith pressed his face more against Ross’ as Trott rubbed circles into his back. Trott mutters words of encouragement, his voice deep and steady.

Ross felt the wall he had built around himself crumble. He weaseled his arms from between Trott and himself. Wildly he threw them around the Jedi and pilot, pressing their bodies closer to his. They were warm and soft, molding to his shaking form. Beneath Trott’s words were Smith’s soft coos, both of them rubbing circles into Ross’ skin. Ross dipped his head between Smith’s and Trott’s, and only then did he realize he was crying. A manic laugh died in his throat, suffocated by the need flowing from him. It had been years since he had been embraced, let alone cried in the arms of people he trusted.

People he trusted, he thought. Ross closed his eyes, too tired to be anything but feel. And it felt like he had imagined – safe. There was strength in the men holding him, determination, understanding. His nose was buried Trott’s loosely braid hair, his lips against the buzz cut sides. Ross felt bad for crying into Trott’s hair, knowing he would have to brush it out tonight; hopefully Trott wouldn’t mind. Smith nuzzled his cheek against Ross’, dampened by the tears running there. His beard was sharp and bristly, but the contrast was welcomed. It made Ross come back to himself, his body heavy but his head light.

“Thank you,” Ross mustered, his voice crackling from crying.

“Ross.”

“Of course sunshine.” Trott leaned to be in Ross’ line of sight, his eyes damp. “Smith and I are going to be here for you Ross.” Trott gave Ross a moment to nod and blink through the threatening tears. “Thank you for talking with us.”

“You can always come to us with stuff like this,” Smith offered eagerly as he wiped his cheeks on his shoulders. Smith and Trott leaned back, giving Ross room, though not disengaging from him. Smith still cupped his neck, while Trott rubbed circles at his shoulder. Ross nodded more, and for the first time in a while, out-right smiled.

“I really don’t know how to thank you two.” Ross rubbed his arm slightly, nervous energy bubbling within him.

“Well for starters, dinner would be nice,” Smith joked. Trott rolled his eyes, squeezed Ross’ shoulder, and started to walk around the table.

“For once Smith has a point. Anything in particular you want Ross?” Ross looked from the Jedi to Smith and just smiled. He could feel the hunger start to roll his stomach, but was almost too giddy to care.

The three of them spent the next hour preparing a simple dinner and salad. They were never far out of arms reach, and though Ross was still reserved, Smith and Trott seemed to gravitate towards the ex-Stormtrooper. Whenever they passed, there was a hand on his shoulder, the whisper of his name. It still felt surreal, to be in the hubbub of attention. But Ross greatly preferred this to trying not to watch from the other side of the room. Ross was warm from the tip of his ears to his toes, enamored pink with glee.  He hummed as he cut the salads and toppings, dashing the mixture with a bit of zesty dressing. Once he was done with that, he grabbed plates and cutlery for the table.

He had almost forgotten about the model. The sleek metal reflected the sunset outside, pouring colors across the table. It was beautiful, Ross decided. Ross had doubted Smith would like it, let alone Trott. But it brought even beyond what Ross expected. Ross knew this was a tipping point, not only in his relationship with the couple, but the relationship he had with himself. The embrace replayed in his head as he set the table. They had come to him, he realized. He expected, if ever, that he would be the own to go to them. They wanted him around, he realized. He wasn’t the burden he had labeled himself for so long. Smith had told him he wasn’t his accomplishments. But then, what was he? Ross had grown up assessing people and situations based on their opportunity, their success. Ross had seen his betrayal as failure, and reassessed his value due to that perception. But Smith and Trott saw recovery where Ross saw brokenness. Redemption where Ross saw damnation.

Ross picked the model up from its endless loop. He stood with it in hand, thinking of how a few days ago he saw himself as a failure. Yet he ended up surprising everyone, including himself, by just giving himself time. The ex-Stormtrooper eased the model back into the bowl, watched as it rocked until finding somewhere comfortable to right itself.

Maybe Ross would too find his way back into the swing of things.

 


End file.
